


The Duality of Nature

by kronette



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marking, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: An ache begins deep in Hannibal’s chest at seeing Will’s unguarded smile, so open without the weight of their lives dragging it down. Will understands when the ache becomes too much; when Hannibal can no longer rein in his need. Set post-season 3.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://kronette.tumblr.com/) and [dreamwidth](https://kronette.dreamwidth.org/)

The lure of the view outside the kitchen proves too much and Hannibal wastes long minutes simply staring at the candid display. 

The three dogs leap and bark at their master, who continues to run, stop, and dart the other way, sending the dogs into one explosion of ecstatic noise after another. 

Even through the window and the distance, Hannibal can see the perspiration glowing on Will’s skin as he continues to roughhouse with their dogs. Faint laughter reaches Hannibal as Will holds the well-worn tennis ball aloft, mouth moving in encouraging noises before tossing it away from the house. 

An ache begins deep in Hannibal’s chest at seeing Will’s unguarded smile, so open without the weight of their lives dragging it down. As if in that single moment, Will and the dogs are the only four creatures in existence and Hannibal is a shadow of a memory.

Bitterness lies thick on Hannibal’s tongue as Will feigns annoyance at being knocked over by the dogs’ exuberance. A long, wet tongue licks at Will’s face and though he splutters and laughs, Will holds Pinot’s head in place to encourage more.

The uninhibited display of affection blooms the ache, tightens and expands it until it is a force that Hannibal cannot contain. His hands tighten on the sink edge before propelling him away from the window, only to face the empty food bowls lined up along the wall. Reality crashes down on him, feeling like a disapproving frown. 

With quick, distracted movements, he finishes filling the food and water bowls—the task he’d neglected in favor of idle viewing—then glances out the window to see Will patting his chest to get Lacy to stand on her back legs. As another bout of Will’s laughter filters through the window, the ache returns with vengeful swiftness and Hannibal knows it must be assuaged before it consumes him, and Will along with it. 

He strides briskly through the foyer to the study, the oak floor cool beneath his bare feet. The desk in the middle of the room is not a valuable antique, but it was well cared for by its previous owner and is well loved by its current owners, Will having refurbished it until its surface was smooth as silk. 

Using both hands to pull the leather chair from behind the desk, Hannibal places it at just the right angle to be seen from the front door. He eases himself down onto the chair, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap, and waits. 

He does not have to wait long. 

A cacophony of noise accompanies the opening of the door, twelve legs bounding through the house in a race to reach the water bowls first. The more quiet sound of the door closing is not lost to Hannibal, and his downcast eyes await the footstep that will signal Will’s awareness of him. 

The soft tread, then the silent presence in the doorway has Hannibal raising his eyes to feast on Will without the glass barrier. Dirty, tattered sneakers. Dubious stains on his jeans and T-shirt. Skin shining with sweat. Breathing unsteady. Wind-tousled hair. Eyes sharp and hungry as they skim over Hannibal, lingering on Hannibal’s folded hands before Will uses the T-shirt to wipe his face, baring his torso in unspoken acquiesce. 

Hannibal’s voice is soft but no less commanding as he orders, “Strip.” Senses sharpen as with a last, heated look, Will turns and pushes the door closed with the flat of his hand, fingertips stroking the wood as reverently as they have ghosted over Hannibal’s skin.

The ache within Hannibal deepens as Will efficiently removes his clothing, the economy of movement fueling Hannibal’s desire to see Will come apart by his hands. Hannibal drinks his fill of unashamedly bared skin: the fading and puckered scars; the raised red marks where claws have recently scratched; the thickening erection between Will’s thighs. 

Hannibal’s gaze retraces its journey up the strong body, relishing the conflict in Will’s expression: await instruction or satisfy his own desires. “Must I tell you what I want?” Hannibal taunts, taking in the twitching jaw muscle and the flexing of Will’s right hand. 

The answer is both pleading and spiteful: “Yes.” 

Hannibal slides his right leg from atop his left, the weight of Will’s gaze making the limb heavy. He spreads his hands wide and inclines his head toward his lap. “Prepare me.” 

Will sinks to his knees between Hannibal’s legs, crowding as close as possible. Will’s scent is strong; his exertions in the sun warming his skin and Hannibal _must_ lean in, _must_ take in the sunshine and sweat and grass and dogs and dirt and _Will_. He noses at Will’s hair, drawing the scent deep inside, letting it become part of him before licking at the dampness along Will’s hairline. 

Hands tighten on Hannibal’s thighs as a soft sound caresses his neck, followed by lips brushing his skin and Hannibal dips his head to meet Will’s kiss. 

The tenderness lasts but a heartbeat, then Hannibal’s hand is at Will’s neck as the kiss turns aggressive, feeling Will’s pulse race against his thumb. It is as much a fight for dominance as a kiss and Will plays dirty, pressing his knuckles hard against the zipper of Hannibal’s trousers. 

A wave of pulsing need sends Hannibal shifting forward, increasing the pressure and trapping Will’s hand between his thighs. Beneath him, Will’s jaw goes slack and Hannibal takes full advantage, arching Will backwards as he swallows the distressed sounds rising from Will’s throat. 

Somehow, lost in the taste and sensuality of the kiss, Hannibal’s trousers are opened and Will’s fingers coax their way inside, pushing fabric out of the way. 

Hannibal is not ready to relinquish Will’s mouth, but the tantalizing strokes are not the touch he craves. His fingers glide down the side of Will’s neck, reluctantly pulling away from the swollen lips with a sigh. Will immediately bends his head to the task Hannibal has demanded of him. At the first touch of wet tongue, Hannibal inhales deeply, fiery tendrils snaking their way through his veins. 

Will holds his gaze, needy and defiant as he mouths down Hannibal’s shaft in a trail of mocking kisses. The rough scrape of beard along the inside of Hannibal’s thigh contrasts with the damp curls caressing his cock, the flick of a tongue an irritating tease. 

The duality of Hannibal’s nature—to take what he wants and to give Will anything he needs—collides as he grips Will’s head to hold him in place. Hot breath gusts over his testicles in uneven bursts, fingertips digging into his lower back as Will’s shoulders tense in anticipation. 

Will understands when the ache becomes too much; when Hannibal can no longer rein in his need. It is as much about Will as it is Hannibal, for Will is the only creature on Earth to affect him in such a way, and Hannibal allows it because Will allows him _this_. 

Hannibal relaxes his hold, running his fingers through the tangled mess of Will’s hair. After a quick, indrawn breath, a flat tongue runs up the underside of his cock, then warm wetness closes around the head. Hannibal breathes deep, then hisses as teeth replace lips and Will’s gaze flicks up to him, issuing a challenge. 

Senses heightened for the hunt as his prey studies him, Hannibal digs his thumb into Will’s jaw, forcing Will to release his prize. 

Breathing hard, Will clamps his hand over Hannibal’s forearm and Hannibal’s instincts take over, manhandling Will to his feet and crowding him back against the desk. Hannibal catches Will’s wrist before the fist can make contact, twisting it behind Will’s back and forcing him face down on the desk. Will twists and kicks out with his legs, trying to knock Hannibal off-balance. 

Vision narrowing to the rushing of his blood, Hannibal clamps his hand over the nape of Will’s neck to hold him still as he shoves up against the exposed ass, zipper digging into tender skin. Hannibal thrusts again, pressing his erection into the cleft of Will’s ass, metal teeth following in its wake. 

“ _No_ ,” is bitten off sharply; quietly, the supple body stilling beneath him in submission. 

Powerful, primal urges flood Hannibal’s entire being, _become_ him, _enhance_ him and the need to create a masterpiece runs thick in his blood. Should he take the liver? Kidneys? Or the heart, beating so frantically beneath the ribcage? All delicacies to savor and he begins to salivate, mind already casting to the tableau he wishes to compose. He twists the arm up higher, tightens his grip on the vulnerable column of flesh in his right hand…and the body seems to melt onto the desktop, loose and trusting. 

“I am only for you,” is shakily breathed out, breaching the impulses that are clouding Hannibal’s mind and allowing him to _see_. 

What Will had foolishly labeled jealousy at the start is too limiting a definition for what Hannibal experiences. It is betrayal, anger, fear and helplessness seeping into his bloodstream like poison, experienced for the first time when Will met his gaze and openly studied him. That headlong rush of _knowing_ another human being—so simple and yet so profound—cracked the mirror around Hannibal’s heart, no longer merely reflecting back what he saw in others, but _feeling_ it. The crack has widened to a deep chasm over the years and the triage bandages only hold it for so long before it claws its way back to the surface. 

All of this, Will understands and submits to him, granting the needs of Hannibal’s weakness an outlet. It is the rarest of gifts and there is no reciprocity that Hannibal could ever conceive that can repay Will’s clemency, but it will never stop him from trying. 

Hannibal loosens his grips, placing his hands on the desk before resting his forehead between Will’s shoulder blades. He presses his mouth to damp skin; a silent apology; a promise. It isn’t until Will’s hands touch his own that he releases the breath he holds, the tightness in his chest easing. 

Steadier now, Hannibal pushes up from his sprawl over Will’s body, feeling more than hearing the sucked-in breath as his zipper separates from Will’s skin. Kneeling down, Hannibal flicks his tongue against the red indentations, soothing the angry flesh. Head reeling with Will’s strong scent, an indistinct, unhappy sound escapes as Will half-turns, hip resting against the scalloped edge of the desk and torso held up by a hand flat on the desk. 

“Make it better,” is neither question nor demand, but the need in Will’s eyes is like a siren’s song. 

Maintaining eye contact, Hannibal presses his thumb into the marks, his lips parting as Will’s hips give a little jerk, the demand that was not in Will’s tone hardening the eyes boring into Hannibal’s. 

Will might have started out a lazy brook drifting without true purpose, but then he flowed into a larger stream, then a powerful river, taking in the new currents and making them his own until finally he arrived at the ocean, a raging tidal force that erodes mountains into smooth pebbles. Hannibal gladly stood in that ocean, letting it wear down his rougher parts so that he would be allowed to experience _this_. 

Breathing out hotly against Will’s hip, Hannibal drags his lips along salty skin, carefully turning Will while protecting the abused flesh from the desk edge. Absorbing the pain of the desk pressing into the bones of his hands, Hannibal sucks at the thin skin at the crease of Will’s thigh, moving inward where Will’s scent is strongest. 

He holds there, breathing in and out deeply, simply waiting for Will to break. Hannibal’s eyes are closed to fully appreciate Will’s arousal like a rare wine newly uncorked, but he is in tune with all of Will and can feel the tension building in the muscles beneath his mouth and hands; in the vibrations in the air around them. 

With a low, guttural noise, Will dislodges Hannibal in his haste to turn around, head dropping to his forearms as Will stretches himself out over the desk, offering himself like the sacrificial lamb he never was. The “ _please_ ” is curt and desperate, what Hannibal has been waiting for, and he smooths his hands down the vulnerable spine; a slow, luxurious movement that whets both their appetites. 

The top drawer holds all the supplies Hannibal needs and he quickly dons a surgical glove before opening the lubricant. His own desire held in check for too long, Hannibal is efficient and brutal, twisting his hand in quarter turns to stretch Will, not giving pause before adding another finger. 

Will is a trembling, gasping mess beneath his ministrations, hands alternating between clenched fists and splayed out fingers as Hannibal twists in three fingers, his own desire spiking at the broken timber of Will’s half-formed moans.

After adding a fourth finger, Hannibal reaches under the desk to grasp Will’s leaking cock. As he strokes Will firmly, Hannibal’s fingers press against Will’s prostate, rubbing in small increments that finally tip him over the edge, a shattered moan a beautiful accompaniment to Will’s orgasm. 

As Will lies boneless and spent on the desk, gasping desperately for air, Hannibal discards the glove and retrieves a condom from the drawer, removing the hindrance of his clothing before rolling it on. 

He gently guides Will to sitting, turning him until he sits on the edge of the desk. Will’s expression is soft and sated, but his eyes still blaze with desire. Their mouths meet with intense savagery but it is equal now, Hannibal giving when Will demands more, teeth biting down too hard and nails digging painful arcs into Hannibal’s shoulders. 

Hannibal strokes along the outside of Will’s hips, along the curve of his ass before sliding his hands beneath Will’s thighs and lifting them slightly, pressing their bodies flush. 

Arms tighten around Hannibal’s shoulders as Will begins to lean backward, Hannibal struggling to maintain his balance as he tries to keep in contact with Will’s mouth and change their position without losing his grip on Will’s thighs. 

Muscles flex beneath his hands as Will’s legs wrap around his waist, steadying their descent to the desktop. Hannibal takes control of the kiss, open and demanding as his hand glides over Will’s ass, feeling the shiver through Will’s skin. Hannibal positions himself and presses inside, gasping out a breath as Will breaks their kiss on a deep-throated groan. 

Nails rake down Hannibal’s back as he thrusts steadily into Will, holding onto his control with everything he possesses. That control is shaken as Will maneuvers his right leg from around Hannibal’s waist to fling it over Hannibal’s shoulder, changing the angle so that Hannibal simply…sinks into him. 

Panting harshly, scrabbling for the threads of his control, Hannibal drops his forehead to Will’s, silently pleading into eyes gone dark with lust. The ache is still there, buzzing beneath his skin, demanding blood and pain as restitution. He knows Will can see it; can feel it in his tensed body. 

With a soft kiss, Will’s arms drop back onto the desk above his head, hands turning until fingers close around the edge. It is an open and vulnerable position, made all the more dangerous when Will tilts head his back, exposing the line of his throat. 

Growling under his breath, Hannibal dives for the jugular, sucking hard at the thudding pulsepoint. His hips snap against Will’s, driving Will’s body up off the desk with the force of his thrusts. 

Will is making small whines with each jolt of his body that Hannibal can feel through Will’s shoulder, worrying flesh between his teeth and blooming bruises on sun-browned skin. The need to mark and claim what is his burns hot beneath Hannibal’s skin; his and _no one else’s_. His hands close over Will’s, slotting their fingers together and pressing down, knuckles white as he forces Will’s body to fold under him. He drives in deeper, faster; sucking the sweat from Will’s neck and aching to sink his teeth into flesh, to taste blood gushing over his tongue.

His movements stutter as Will comes a second time with a low, pained groan, and then Hannibal _takes_ , bending the pliant body as he comes with a roar in his ears and blood pulsing behind his eyelids. 

It is some time before Hannibal is able to open his eyes; to not feel as if his heart is hammering its way out of his chest. He’s lying with his ear pressed to Will’s chest, a bone-deep lassitude sapping all the strength from his body. 

Fingers are in his hair, brushing against his scalp in soothing circles as Will’s other hand lies flat against his back, fingers splayed over the brand that Verger gave him. 

“Did I hurt you?” Hannibal asks as he always does, acutely aware of the incongruity of his fingertips tracing the scar on Will’s abdomen. 

There is no pause in Will’s ministrations, no hesitation as he answers with a question of his own: “Is it better?” 

Hannibal sighs, rubbing his cheek in the sweat and semen mixing beneath him, the pungent smell filling his nostrils. “Yes,” he answers, gently squeezing Will’s waist. 

Will’s fingers trail along his ear, along the edge of his jaw to brush over his lips. “I’ll be fine,” he finally answers Hannibal’s question, but there is a note in his voice that Hannibal cannot let go unchallenged. 

He sits up to scrutinize Will’s neck and chest, seeing the darkening bruises and a few beads of blood. He thumbs the blood off Will’s skin and brings it to his mouth, seeing the flush along Will’s throat as he sucks his thumb clean. “Where?” Hannibal demands roughly, though his touch is gentle as he brushes the sweat-soaked curls off Will’s forehead. 

Will captures his hand, bringing it to his mouth to press a kiss to the center of Hannibal’s palm. “Cramp in my thigh and some strained muscles in my back,” Will says in a voice gone quiet, a sharp pang cutting into Hannibal’s chest at the admission. 

Hannibal barely hears Will’s dismissive, “Nothing a hot bath won’t alleviate,” sourness building at the back of his throat. He pulls away from Will’s touch, averting his gaze as he laments, “I was nearly out of control.” 

“You were dominating,” Will challenges, the breathless hitch in his voice stirring something primal inside Hannibal. “Powerful. Reclaiming what you’re afraid you could lose if you’re not constantly vigilant.” 

Hannibal barely catches himself from cracking their foreheads together as Will grabs his neck and yanks him down until they are nose to nose. An answering call flares in his chest at seeing the fierce possessiveness glowing in the depths of Will’s eyes.

“Do you think you’re the only one who feels that way?” The emotional crack in Will’s voice is unmistakable and a rushing sound fills Hannibal’s ears as he realizes what Will is telling him. “It’s not just that we could be caught every time we leave this place. It’s not just that either of us could pick the wrong target and be killed.” 

Hannibal savors the pain as nails drag along the brand on his back, growling softly at the clash of anger, helplessness and jealousy that rage in Will’s eyes. “It’s _this_. I _despise_ his mark on you. I want to dig my fingernails underneath it and rip it from your skin.” Will’s breath hitches as his eyes darken even more, the primal need to possess something Hannibal understands all too well, but never realized burned so strong in his Will. “Every morning. Every night, it stares back at me, a constant reminder that he marked you as his and _he had no right_.” Will’s eyes mist over and Hannibal forgets to breathe, air no longer important as Will hisses, “You’re _mine_.”

The declaration hangs between them for an eternity; a breath, then Will is sucking Hannibal’s lower lip and biting down on it, triggering an answering fire in Hannibal’s blood. Bodies intertwine once again, Hannibal’s knee between Will’s legs, Will digging fingers into Hannibal’s ass and dragging him up their oversensitized skin. 

“I am only for you,” Hannibal breathes against Will’s lips before reclaiming his mouth, hands skimming over Will’s body but unable to grab hold of the sweat-slick skin. He traces up Will’s arm, hand tightening over Will’s wrist before lacing their fingers together, pressing their joined hands onto the desktop. “I would claim you again,” he promises, teeth scraping down Will’s throat to close over the mark he made earlier. 

“Yours… _mine_ …” Will pants into his throat, Hannibal groaning as he feels Will’s teeth sink into his shoulder, bright pain mellowing to the pleasant thrum of knowing that Will is laying claim to what is his.

Hannibal’s body reacts as if he orgasmed again, blood rushing and senses narrowing to one focal point: Will. Overwhelmed, Hannibal lets his head fall to Will’s shoulder, his strength waning. Beneath him, Will’s increasingly languid body is taking more of Hannibal’s weight, and an ominous creak from the desk gives them pause. 

Breathless laughter accompanies the flutter of contractions in Will’s abdomen and Hannibal joins in his merriment before carefully unentangling himself from Will. He removes the condom and then helps Will to sit up, his eyes drawn to the heat imprint of Will’s body on the desktop. 

He hears the shaky exhale and his eyes lock onto Will, feeling the tension in Will’s body as it is forced to unbend and stretch. Hannibal’s chest clenches, not with the familiar ache but a new, bright pain that steals his breath: the knowledge that his need is the cause of Will’s injury. Hannibal clasps an arm loosely around Will’s waist as he murmurs, “I’ll run a bath for you.” 

Will shoots him an indulgent, affectionate glare. “Hannibal, you don’t—” Will pauses in his protest, his expression softening to one of startled realization and Hannibal wonders if Will can see the weight that has settled on his chest. The moment is over too soon and Will’s voice is barely above a whisper as he says, “I’d like that, thank you. Join me?”

Hannibal doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head until he steps away from Will, immediately missing the comfort of touch and warmth. “You need to soak in the heat to keep your muscles from seizing up. You don’t need me as a distraction.” 

Will reaches out, tangling their fingers together until Hannibal relents and allows his fingers to be aligned with Will’s. “Your body is more giving than the porcelain. It would be much more beneficial if I leaned back against you.” Hannibal’s breath stutters as Will steps closer, lips lightly grazing his. “Please.”

It will be his downfall, Hannibal knows; this weakness that Will brings out in him, but he will deny Will nothing whether Will knows of it or not. “Very well,” he sighs, returning the light kiss. “Best put on our trousers before we leave the room, however.” 

“Why?” Will’s puzzled frown evaporates as Hannibal smirks; the dogs have been whining and scratching at the door, no doubt curious as to what their masters have been doing without them, and Will has been oblivious. 

“You’re an ass,” Will declares with exasperated fondness. 

“This ass?” Hannibal retorts smoothly as he bends over to retrieve Will’s clothing from the floor. 

Even with sweat still drying on his skin and livid marks still coming to fruition across his shoulders, Will’s eyes are slightly glazed when Hannibal hands him his clothing. 

Holding Hannibal’s gaze, Will deliberately drops his shirt and underwear, pulling the jeans up over his hips. Hannibal forces his body not to respond as instead of doing the jeans up properly, Will tucks himself in and leaves the front gaping open.

Turning away from the tempting sight, Hannibal steps into his underwear and trousers, safely doing up the zipper and button, much to Will’s amusement. “You tend to the dogs while I run the bath,” Hannibal instructs him, refusing to be baited further. 

As Will’s hand touches the doorknob, he looks back with a tired smile that Hannibal instinctually returns before opening the door and pushing the dogs back, leading them away from the open door. 

Hannibal retrieves a cloth and cleaning solution from the second drawer of the desk and begins wiping down the desk and floor, erasing the evidence of his and Will’s coupling, but not the memory. He gathers the rest of their clothing before passing through the foyer to the bathroom, hearing Will call to the dogs from the front doorway. 

He pauses to toss their clothes into the laundry basket, leaving Will’s sneakers outside the bedroom door on his way to the bathroom. He plugs the tub and adds bath salts to the running water, then drapes towels over the warming rack and sets the bath mat on the floor. He strips and steps into the soaking tub—just this side of too hot—and sinks under the water, counting to ten. When he emerges, Will is naked beside the tub, lips parted and eyes half-closed, body swaying slightly. 

Hannibal extends a hand and softly orders, “Come here.” Will clutches his hand to brace himself as he steps over the lip, then eases himself down and settles between Hannibal’s spread legs.

Hannibal wraps his arms around Will’s chest and Will’s arms immediately cover them, drawing them closer until Will is snug against Hannibal’s chest. With a weary sigh, Will relaxes against him, humming pleasantly under his breath. 

“Comfortable?” Hannibal rumbles in Will’s ear, feeling the movement of Will’s smile against his cheek. 

“Infinitely,” Will murmurs, body growing heavy against Hannibal. “This is amazing. You’re amazing.” 

“ _We’re_ amazing,” Hannibal corrects him gently, but he can feel the loll of Will’s head; he’s either dozing or very close to sleep. Careful not to disturb him, Hannibal tilts his head back against the edge of the tub and closes his eyes, enjoying the rhythm of Will’s steady breathing and the dull throb in his shoulder where Will marked his claim.

When Hannibal is sure that Will has fallen into a deep enough slumber, he begins to wash him; first Will’s chest and arms, then neck and face. When Hannibal touches the washcloth to Will’s thigh, he stirs and sighs, but doesn’t waken. Hannibal is gentle but thorough as his cloth-covered hand washes Will’s genitals. 

“Mm...what?” Will mutters drowsily, tilting his head back to look up at Hannibal. “I fell asleep?” 

“A testament to my skills,” he teases, nipping lightly at a bruise on Will’s neck. 

Will chuckles even as he shakes his head. “I was out playing with the dogs for almost an hour before you got your hands on me.” His laughter dies away as he squeezes Hannibal’s arm. “Not that your skills aren’t greatly appreciated.” 

As if sensing they’re being talked about, the dogs begin scratching at the door, Hannibal grateful that Will had the presence of mind to shut it firmly before joining him in the bath. “I was watching you,” Hannibal admits, nose pressing into Will’s hair, not finding a trace of sunshine in the matted, sweaty curls. 

Hannibal is not surprised when Will replies, “I know.” Will’s instincts have been honed over the past year and a half, survival and the hunt sharpening his awareness of his surroundings. Hannibal had not taken his eyes off of Will for a good twenty minutes; if Will hadn’t noticed, he would have been worried.

“Will you permit me to wash your hair?” Hannibal asks, rubbing his thumb in small circles on Will’s skin. 

“You know I don’t like it, yet you constantly ask,” Will replies darkly. “If I were _someone else_ , I’d consider that rude.” 

Will’s sarcasm is biting but Hannibal simply ignores it; constant exposure bolstering his immunity. Instead, he reasons, “It would have been rude of me to wash it while you were asleep. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is all that I require.”

“No, then,” Will answers quickly, though the tightening fingers along Hannibal’s forearm take the sting out of the rejection. “This is nice, just like this.” 

“Are you going to fall asleep on me again?” he murmurs into Will’s neck, flicking his tongue against the clean skin. 

Will’s breathing deepens and his head tilts away from Hannibal’s mouth, giving Hannibal more skin to taste. Hannibal obliges by sucking lightly, dragging the tip of his tongue along the tendons. 

A hint of breathlessness softens Will’s voice as he says, “If you’re that worried about me drowning in this ocean of a tub, let me finish getting cleaned up and I’ll meet you in bed.” 

Hannibal’s mouth leaves Will’s skin as he lifts his head, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Will’s suggestion. 

Will’s grin isn’t more than a flicker of movement, his eyes still heavy with sleep as he explains, “A much safer environment for me to fall asleep on you.” 

Hannibal smiles indulgently and holds Will to him for a brief moment before extracting himself from Will’s embrace. He carefully maneuvers himself out of the tub, taking one of the warmed towels from the rack and wrapping it around his waist. “If you’re not in bed in the next twenty minutes, I will come back in here and do more than wash your hair,” he threatens with a twinkle in his eye. 

“You’re dripping on the floor,” Will remarks dryly, blithely ignoring his threat. 

Narrowing his eyes, Hannibal gives a half seconds’ thought to dunking Will beneath the water, but as he watches Will slowly lathering himself up, he can feel Will’s exhaustion like a physical presence. 

Quietly, Hannibal picks up the last of their clothing and opens the door slowly, raising his hand and pushing it out directly in front of him. The dogs immediately back up, allowing him to leave the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and gives the hand signal to follow, hearing the discordant taps as the dogs trail after him. 

He deposits the clothes on top of the laundry basket, then turns down the bed, smoothing the wrinkles out of the sheets. As he leans over the bed to reach the opposite corner, his body reminds him of its strenuous activities with throbbing pain and aching muscles, and the need to sink down onto the mattress is the only thought left to him. Groaning softly, he lets the towel crumple to the floor before crawling under the sheets, stretching out on his back. He closes his eyes to better hear the music his body is making, angry protests and pulsating tiredness harmonizing in warm contentment. 

When he becomes aware of his surroundings again, Will’s heavy weight is resting on his chest, a hand curved possessively around the bite mark on his shoulder. Hannibal can tell by the even, slow breaths that Will is deeply asleep and won’t likely wake until close to dinnertime. 

Sliding a hand along Will’s shoulder until he covers his own marks, Hannibal closes his eyes and allows darkness to pull him under, joining Will in his dreams. 

The End


End file.
